The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is "new" or "new year." Try as I might to think of something else, I keep coming back to this:
New Home, New Lives, New Zealand
Yes, once again I'm writing about my friend J. and her family's plans for ditching this hellhole we call the "San Francisco Bay Area." They're pulling up stakes and moving to New Zealand. They're starting completely over in a new life. But before the new life can begin, they'll need to shed the old.
There are pets to parcel out. The new puppy has already been re-adopted. One cat has gone to a sister. The one-eyed-and-nearly-blind-in-the-remaining-eye Lucky dog is set to go to the MIL, who will no doubt fatten up this lean, gorgeous, gregarious dog.
There are heirlooms to leave with one of two sisters in the area for safekeeping. There are craigslist items galore. There is the kick-ass piano. There is the Socialist Prius and the mini-van. There are garage sales in the future. There is a house sale to be done.
There are books galore and toys galore and clothes galore and bedding galore. All of the old will be shed, bit by bit. Until there are just, what, a dozen boxes to ship and a bunch of suitcases?
They are going on a hell of an adventure. There will be a new job for S. New schools for the two girls. New friends to meet. New hikes to take. New sights to see. A new home. A new life. In New Zealand.
My daughter is 9. J.'s older daughter is her best friend. She has been her best friend for as long as my daughter can remember having friends. My daughter constantly seeks assurance that it's okay to wish that their new life falls through. I tell her it is okay because, truth be told, I harbor the same dirty little secret wish. It's just a tiny part of me that wants it not to happen, but it's there nonetheless.
They'll be back at some point, we all tell ourselves. In the meantime, Daughter and I will have to fill a new hole in our hearts.